Saturday, May 14, 2011
Why Are There Bubbles In Aero?
This advert has to be in my top 5 fave ads of all time. I never get tired of watching it and I always have a smile on my face while I watch it. Unconciously.
Two commenters from you-tube said:
@blauviolet ... it's at the ending when the voice comes on i actually break out of the trance and say to myself "what was the ad all about again?" and i replay and the same thing happens.
-ml210378
Every time that ad came on I would force myself to listen to what he says....it never worked hehe....damn you hot man, because of you I will never know the reason for the bubbles in Aero
-blauviolet
Spot. On.
Lol.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Favourite Things
PHENOMENAL WOMAN
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
-MAYA ANGELOU
I've always loved this poem
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
-MAYA ANGELOU
I've always loved this poem
From The Archives...
(Another iPod find)
From time to time, people ask me questions that cause me pause. Granted these questions range from the daft “When are you getting married” (When you take Minding Yo Business free online course) to the justified like "What the hell are you doing here?!" when I once again get lost and land on private property (surprisingly frequent occurrence). Still, from time to time I receive an inquiry
so disturbing that I myself a forced to ponder....
Recently such an inquiry was posed, it didn't arrive hiding under the
banner of concern or the giggling shackles of jest, this was a genuinely curious inquiry. The questioner wanted to know Why I am the way I am. With the number of
times I have been asked this you would think I'd have a ready answer
for the pseudo-intellectual minds clearly struggling to dissect this conundrum of a matter. I am usually tempted to repeat some banal lines from Angelou’s
extraordinary ‘Pheomenal Woman’ poem but the mockery I fear I will see in the eyes of my questioner when I get to this line “...its in the span of my hips..” bids me pause. #WiderHipsWanted.
(Btw, I am typing this on my iPod on the train and a deaf lady is sign language-ing her husband across the carriage. I just realised that if you are hearing impaired,
gossiping in public might be a tad difficult. I’m sad for them, it kind of sucks...as that's one of the special things about marriage, a constant gossip partner. I can’t wait! Lol.).
iDigress.
“So, why am I the way I am?” I thought to myself after the inquiries became insistent. I believe the closest thing to an answer I can give is; my childhood. Seriously, what were my chances of coming out a regular human being when at the age of eight (8), I was lead backing vocalist of the ‘choir’, consisting of one disturbingly silly 6 year old, mischievous 4 and a tyrannical two? We proudly croaked along to our uncle-turned -rapper’s (eventually turned cultist) terribly mediocre ramblings of daily happenings at our house, uncleverly disguised as rhymes. No, 50 Cent is NOT my uncle.
From time to time, people ask me questions that cause me pause. Granted these questions range from the daft “When are you getting married” (When you take Minding Yo Business free online course) to the justified like "What the hell are you doing here?!" when I once again get lost and land on private property (surprisingly frequent occurrence). Still, from time to time I receive an inquiry
so disturbing that I myself a forced to ponder....
Recently such an inquiry was posed, it didn't arrive hiding under the
banner of concern or the giggling shackles of jest, this was a genuinely curious inquiry. The questioner wanted to know Why I am the way I am. With the number of
times I have been asked this you would think I'd have a ready answer
for the pseudo-intellectual minds clearly struggling to dissect this conundrum of a matter. I am usually tempted to repeat some banal lines from Angelou’s
extraordinary ‘Pheomenal Woman’ poem but the mockery I fear I will see in the eyes of my questioner when I get to this line “...its in the span of my hips..” bids me pause. #WiderHipsWanted.
(Btw, I am typing this on my iPod on the train and a deaf lady is sign language-ing her husband across the carriage. I just realised that if you are hearing impaired,
gossiping in public might be a tad difficult. I’m sad for them, it kind of sucks...as that's one of the special things about marriage, a constant gossip partner. I can’t wait! Lol.).
iDigress.
“So, why am I the way I am?” I thought to myself after the inquiries became insistent. I believe the closest thing to an answer I can give is; my childhood. Seriously, what were my chances of coming out a regular human being when at the age of eight (8), I was lead backing vocalist of the ‘choir’, consisting of one disturbingly silly 6 year old, mischievous 4 and a tyrannical two? We proudly croaked along to our uncle-turned -rapper’s (eventually turned cultist) terribly mediocre ramblings of daily happenings at our house, uncleverly disguised as rhymes. No, 50 Cent is NOT my uncle.
Single & Mighty
Randomly going through notes I’d written on my ipod from ages ago and I found some gems I’d written and forgotten on the crafty device for about a year. Between seven different ‘Things To Do’ lists and notes on random gossip my sister and I had indulged in at church (I use the bible on my ipod in church), were some notes that made me smile, side-eye myself and/or pause to think. One of these pretty hard rocks was a note I had made from a House On The Rock program I’d attended called...wait for it...SINGLE & MIGHTY. *so many jokes, so little time*.
Before you judge me as a typical Nigerian woman attending Single Fellowships in hopes of bumping into my Mr Right With God a.k.a JesusIsMyNiggah, the program came on a day where I had asked God “Please send me some advice for _____ relationship problem before I do something Typical Me l #Kano.Add the fact that my pastor from my church in England was one of the visiting pastors...ok, ok and the fact that charlatans all over the city were touting rumours of free snacks and such...but that’s neither here nor there.
Anyways, I enjoyed reading this note I made because it’s really in line with how I feel about marriage at the moment. The culture in Nigeria is so marriage-minded, marriage is so touted as the ultimate accomplishment that many people get themselves in sticky situations in the process of attaining and keeping this ‘holy marital grail’. But thats a post for a whole ‘nother day yo! Below are the short notes i made with liberal sprinklings of incomplete sentences and huge chunks of my own paraphrasing. Hopefully someone will be able to follow and get some pick pearls from swine:).
Pastor Tai Adeshugba from Worship Taberncale church;
“Marriage is a means to an end not an end in itself. Being single and being married are not ultimate goals in themselves, rather they’re a part of the process of living. Singleness is an essential pathway, a transitional stage on the way to marriage so enjoy it while it lasts.
It is important to empower yourself as a single person. Being single does not put disadvantage you in any way. Being single is an opportunity to focus on yoursels; to find and study your purpose in this life. This is what this time is for; praparation, understanding yourself, learning why you were put on this earth. This is a journey we need to all go on alone. This is why you should find your purpose before you get married. People are looking for complete people, not people who are looking to be completed because that is a heavy responsibility for another human to bear. Sometimes, God brings you along to propel a significant other to where they are supposed to be and in so doing, you propel yourself too.
So what do you do with your years of pre-marital bliss?
Expect the best.
Prov 23:18.
If you refuse to accept anything but the best, you will often get it. Your mind set should be: “If God told me to live in this way and I am following His words, He will bring the best for me”. You want the best, you have to be prepared to wait for the best. In your waiting, always maintain a positive attitude, people who expect negative things are usually not disappointed. Many times, your expectations determine your results. So motivate yourself to be the best YOU that you can be; challenge all self limiting beliefs as you will always see what you already believe. Don’t focus on your faults, work on them, highlight your strengths. Selling yourself short will make you settle for less than you should.
2. Be the best
Do whatever you do excellently well, it is in thIS that you find fulfillment. Doing the best at this moment puts you in the best position for the next moment. Focus on being a Purpose NOT Passion Driven person. Remember, until you're over qualified in your current position you are not due for a promotion. See Daniel 3:6
Daniel distinguished himself from the other (incredibly good) contenders. What is it about you that is special?
To get the best out of others you have to be the best of yourself. Remember, Life puts the best things out of the reach of Mediocrity. Try to bring the best out of every inordinate development.
Prepare yourself for marriage...
Women don't have problems submitting... to men who make right decisions. If you're going to lead, be the best...Provider protector Priest you can be.
Find and develop your purpose in a line that will sustain you in the long term.
Do not look for wealth in a partner first, search for; potential vision passion purpose...there are many undiscovered ‘diamond in the rough’ characters.
3. Do the best
“Whatever your hands find to do, do it well.”-Ecclesiastes 9:10. Whatever you do, do it with all your might. Give it your all. Develop, for yourself, a culture of maintenance. Your best is what is in you not what is around you so even without resources, you are wired to progress. God blesses the works of our hands, the passage does not say “He blesses our hands”. You have a responsibility. As Pablo Picasso said, inspiration will come but when it does...let it find you working.
Do not be weary in well doing (Galatians 6:9).
4. Start living in the moment
I heard...
2 Timothy 2:13
If we are faithless, He remains faithful for He can not disown Himself. He remains faithful to his word and to His righteous character.-Amplified version.
If you give up on Him, He CAN NOT give up on you because there is no way that He can be false to Himself.-Message version.
I love these translations of this scripture. Makes me happy. Very.
If we are faithless, He remains faithful for He can not disown Himself. He remains faithful to his word and to His righteous character.-Amplified version.
If you give up on Him, He CAN NOT give up on you because there is no way that He can be false to Himself.-Message version.
I love these translations of this scripture. Makes me happy. Very.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
I heard...
"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
- Anais Nin (stolen from Andiva!)
P.S: Thank you for all the support Oddo!!!!
- Anais Nin (stolen from Andiva!)
P.S: Thank you for all the support Oddo!!!!
Ithaca
It's no news that I rate Latin-American writers. I've been an avid fan of Paulo Coelho's blog for ages pablocoelho.blogspot.com. So much wisdom to be found there (but keep your brain on when you visit...you know what Paul says, "Everything is permissible but not everything is beneficial").
Anyhoo, I love poetry and I really really like this poem featured on the blog this week. It's a testament to the fact that our lives are journeys and every step in this journey is understood by the Author and Finisher of our faith. This is why we CAN step out in confidence everytime, live our fullest life, knowing that we're living a life of purpose because nothing surprises our God. No matter how many times our own choices make us seem unworthy of our calling, His love and our understanding of how gracious he is should encourage us to enjoy this God-given after all, every thing in this our labour of love for God works together for OUR OWN good. So Carpe Diem, seize the day...enjoy the moment...appreciate the journey...as Christiana of christianarants.com. would say, "Write Your Own Love Story."...I'll say Live Your Own Love Story.
I am. :)
ITHACA
As you set out for Ithaca
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them:
you’ ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon – you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbours you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.
Keep Ithaca always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.
Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
and this is the meaning of Ithaca.
Author : Konstantinos Petrou Kavafis
Anyhoo, I love poetry and I really really like this poem featured on the blog this week. It's a testament to the fact that our lives are journeys and every step in this journey is understood by the Author and Finisher of our faith. This is why we CAN step out in confidence everytime, live our fullest life, knowing that we're living a life of purpose because nothing surprises our God. No matter how many times our own choices make us seem unworthy of our calling, His love and our understanding of how gracious he is should encourage us to enjoy this God-given after all, every thing in this our labour of love for God works together for OUR OWN good. So Carpe Diem, seize the day...enjoy the moment...appreciate the journey...as Christiana of christianarants.com. would say, "Write Your Own Love Story."...I'll say Live Your Own Love Story.
I am. :)
ITHACA
As you set out for Ithaca
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them:
you’ ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon – you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbours you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.
Keep Ithaca always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.
Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn’t have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
and this is the meaning of Ithaca.
Author : Konstantinos Petrou Kavafis
Favourite Things-Diva Edition
Modern fervour & fierceness! That man in 2:43 looking like a zealot in sunday worship captured my sentiments exactly as I watched 'our' Bey belt out like one of those yodelling billy goats in the Sound of Music. iKid. *obligatory Beyonce hating moment over*. These women are amazing in this performance, I can never watch it only once! Encore 'demoiselles!
FREE is one of my fave DC3 songs. Ever.
Goodnight.x
FREE is one of my fave DC3 songs. Ever.
Goodnight.x
Favourite Things-Diva Edition
I am going through a Diana Ross phase, seriously this woman is the only real Black Barbie, leave whatchu heard ....yes miss Minaj, that was for you! Lol. So much diva dust in the air in these videos, unprecedented feirceness slamming into kneegroes and gentlefolks with fervour! Lol. Lavvit!!
This songs makes me soooo happy:)...Groovayyy bayyybayyy!:
This songs makes me soooo happy:)...Groovayyy bayyybayyy!:
To Be Continued...
Olla’nna saw her death coming before everyone else did. Not in a dream or a vision at mid day but in the few seconds before she passed out, she saw herself dead. Contrary to the belief of the living, the dead did not view a slide show of their life as they traipsed down the red brick road to meet a sickle-clencing Death at the end of a dark rainbow...some simply saw themselves on the other side...and waited calmly for the transition.
“Ama, we are going to die today.” Olla’nna murmured to her smiling friend sitting at her side.
“Mmm? What did you say Olla, you know I don’t hear when I’m eating” Ama playfully replied, her constant smile still brightening her pretty oval face.
Olla’nna looked annoyed as she turned away from her friend and continued to look out of the window. She felt a sudden calm settle over her even as she stared at the lorry bearing down on their school bus. So close, she could see all of death’s colours. Vibrant vibrant yellows. Smoked yellow for the driver’s eyes, bright yellow for his teeth, the yellow underbelly of the kolanut he had on his now yellowing tongue. The yellow tip of the cigar hanging loosely from his chapped lips. And of course, the golden yellow of the bottle of whisky in his right hand. She wondered if anyone else felt the presence of the sickle-holding one. Then she saw them, the tell-tale signs of fear peppered the school bus. Isadora, the Assisi house captain held her rosary in her right hand as she quietly offered prayers. Imrana, her nemesis in J.S.S 2b sat quietly pretending to focus on his computer game, although his finger stayed stationary on the X key. A closer inspection showed Ama’s pupils had dilated, and she was speaking about eating in a high pitched, rather unrecognisable voice.
“We know.” Olla’nna thought.
The lorry bore down on the bus like an avenging angel, swooping down so fast it could have been mistaken for a race car not a 70 tonne vehicle stacked high with timber. The last thing Olla’nna saw before the bus spun into a ravine was the proud declaration on the lorry’s front “NO WAHALA FOR HEVUN”.
**************************************************************************
“Ah ah, seventeen missed calls in eight minutes?!” a surprised Kilali asked her equally confused friend, Aleruchi. The phone was already ringing again before Aleruchi’s face had managed to fully shape into a frown.
“...yes, this is she” Kilali told the disembodied voice at the phone’s other end as she made herself comfortable and carefully placed her plate of wedding delights on the table, eager to finish the conversation and return to the wedding’s festivities.
“Accident?!” she shot up. Tipping her heaped plate and its delicacies unto her vintage Ferragamos. “What do you mean an accident...??!...” She continued, the stress in her heart reflecting in the stress she placed on every syllable. “OLLA??!?!?!?!? WHICH OLLA?!?!” By now her screams had alerted other guests at the wedding. People continued to stare as she threw off her gele, undid and redid her wrapper and began a march to nowhere at all.
************************************************************************
2:07p.m. on the fifth of February 2011 found Kilali Roger standing in a confused daze at the Kaduna Government Memorial Mortuary off Sabon Gari in the old town.
“Madam abeg no look us, look T.V. If na dead body you come fine’ for hya abeg fine’ am dey go! We get many dead body hya today” One of the mortuary attendants shouted at Kilali as she stared aghast at what looked to her like a million little bodies littered on the ground. The attendant’s loud voice came to her from far away, prompting nothing but an eery smile from Kilali. “Nigeria’s service industry will be the death of me” she thought. The smile was immediately wiped off her face as she belatedly realised it would literally kill her, if her daughter’s body were to be found littered amongst the charred corpses carelessly scattered around by the ineffective Nigerian Mortuary workers.
“S-ssor.....” She coughed. “Please, please I need to find Olla” she murmured to the frowning attendants. “ ‘Olla’ na road or wetin be that one?!” the most assertive of the attendants asked belligerently, drawing smiles from some of his colleagues. One of the attendants hung back, clearly not enjoying Kilali’s distress. “Madam no vex,” he told Kilali, “...we dey work since morning we don tire na why dem dey behave like this, you no say this job no be small tin. Who you dey find? Na pikin from dat bus from Minna state wey all the small pikin die?” Kilali could only nod mutely, her brain unable to retain information. Going into autopilot, she asked redundant, foolish questions.
“So this bus, are you sure it was the one from Minna that crashed?” “But some of the children are alive. Are they here? There is a little girl that belongs to me there..she’s in the hospital? Let me look at the ones that did not die first. Please. Please. Plea..” her voice cracked then. The look all the attendants were giving her now told her brain something her heart could not comprehend just yet.
Baby Olla was gone.
“Ok madam” the formerly belligerent attendant told her quietly. “Since you don already reach here make we first just check the pikin wey dey here fas fas then we go go see the one wey no die for hospital, mmmn?” he told her calmly, knowing the hospital was empty of a wounded but alive little girl belonging to this woman with the vacant eyes. He slowly winded between the little bodies. A silent Kilali followed.
The air gradually filled with hushed voices as more parents filed into the mortuary. Every few minutes, the pain in the air was exacerbated by a wounded cry from a relative indicating they had identified their own. But still Kilali and Olla’nna remained separated.
“Ma, you talk say your pikin get pink and blue watch and suppose dey wear yellow uniform abi?” The attendant said to Kilali as he stopped, staring down at a little girl that looked eerily like... “OLLA?” Kilali whispered quietly to her daughter as if the love in a mother’s voice could wake the child. “Baby Olla” her mother whispered again to her baby, this time shaking her pink watched hand. “Baby, Olla, Olla’nwam, Olla’nna...” her voice getting more insistent as she called her daughter’s names. She shook her with each name. As her voice softened, the pressure of her hands increased. “Olla, Olla, Olla don’t leave mummy. Please. Please Olla.” By now she had her daughter’s little body in her arms and was sobbing into her lifeless neck.
Kilali Roger cried like a king. Not a queen. In contrast to her regal, almost aloof, nature she cried like a lion feeling the first tear of the hunter’s arrow. Loud and haunting, the sound burst from her lips like it had been repressed for a long time. Like the tears of women all over the world, it had. It had laid deep inside her through marriage issues, losing a father, labour pains and more. Mixing with her intestines, peppering her throat, fighting with her tonsils to escape the prison of her mouth. Often she did not let it. But today, today there would be no other day like it. The tears burst from her, drawing gasps and answering tears from the eyes of the other parents as they all mourned the deaths of their Joy.
********************************************************************
“Ama, we are going to die today.” Olla’nna murmured to her smiling friend sitting at her side.
“Mmm? What did you say Olla, you know I don’t hear when I’m eating” Ama playfully replied, her constant smile still brightening her pretty oval face.
Olla’nna looked annoyed as she turned away from her friend and continued to look out of the window. She felt a sudden calm settle over her even as she stared at the lorry bearing down on their school bus. So close, she could see all of death’s colours. Vibrant vibrant yellows. Smoked yellow for the driver’s eyes, bright yellow for his teeth, the yellow underbelly of the kolanut he had on his now yellowing tongue. The yellow tip of the cigar hanging loosely from his chapped lips. And of course, the golden yellow of the bottle of whisky in his right hand. She wondered if anyone else felt the presence of the sickle-holding one. Then she saw them, the tell-tale signs of fear peppered the school bus. Isadora, the Assisi house captain held her rosary in her right hand as she quietly offered prayers. Imrana, her nemesis in J.S.S 2b sat quietly pretending to focus on his computer game, although his finger stayed stationary on the X key. A closer inspection showed Ama’s pupils had dilated, and she was speaking about eating in a high pitched, rather unrecognisable voice.
“We know.” Olla’nna thought.
The lorry bore down on the bus like an avenging angel, swooping down so fast it could have been mistaken for a race car not a 70 tonne vehicle stacked high with timber. The last thing Olla’nna saw before the bus spun into a ravine was the proud declaration on the lorry’s front “NO WAHALA FOR HEVUN”.
**************************************************************************
“Ah ah, seventeen missed calls in eight minutes?!” a surprised Kilali asked her equally confused friend, Aleruchi. The phone was already ringing again before Aleruchi’s face had managed to fully shape into a frown.
“...yes, this is she” Kilali told the disembodied voice at the phone’s other end as she made herself comfortable and carefully placed her plate of wedding delights on the table, eager to finish the conversation and return to the wedding’s festivities.
“Accident?!” she shot up. Tipping her heaped plate and its delicacies unto her vintage Ferragamos. “What do you mean an accident...??!...” She continued, the stress in her heart reflecting in the stress she placed on every syllable. “OLLA??!?!?!?!? WHICH OLLA?!?!” By now her screams had alerted other guests at the wedding. People continued to stare as she threw off her gele, undid and redid her wrapper and began a march to nowhere at all.
************************************************************************
2:07p.m. on the fifth of February 2011 found Kilali Roger standing in a confused daze at the Kaduna Government Memorial Mortuary off Sabon Gari in the old town.
“Madam abeg no look us, look T.V. If na dead body you come fine’ for hya abeg fine’ am dey go! We get many dead body hya today” One of the mortuary attendants shouted at Kilali as she stared aghast at what looked to her like a million little bodies littered on the ground. The attendant’s loud voice came to her from far away, prompting nothing but an eery smile from Kilali. “Nigeria’s service industry will be the death of me” she thought. The smile was immediately wiped off her face as she belatedly realised it would literally kill her, if her daughter’s body were to be found littered amongst the charred corpses carelessly scattered around by the ineffective Nigerian Mortuary workers.
“S-ssor.....” She coughed. “Please, please I need to find Olla” she murmured to the frowning attendants. “ ‘Olla’ na road or wetin be that one?!” the most assertive of the attendants asked belligerently, drawing smiles from some of his colleagues. One of the attendants hung back, clearly not enjoying Kilali’s distress. “Madam no vex,” he told Kilali, “...we dey work since morning we don tire na why dem dey behave like this, you no say this job no be small tin. Who you dey find? Na pikin from dat bus from Minna state wey all the small pikin die?” Kilali could only nod mutely, her brain unable to retain information. Going into autopilot, she asked redundant, foolish questions.
“So this bus, are you sure it was the one from Minna that crashed?” “But some of the children are alive. Are they here? There is a little girl that belongs to me there..she’s in the hospital? Let me look at the ones that did not die first. Please. Please. Plea..” her voice cracked then. The look all the attendants were giving her now told her brain something her heart could not comprehend just yet.
Baby Olla was gone.
“Ok madam” the formerly belligerent attendant told her quietly. “Since you don already reach here make we first just check the pikin wey dey here fas fas then we go go see the one wey no die for hospital, mmmn?” he told her calmly, knowing the hospital was empty of a wounded but alive little girl belonging to this woman with the vacant eyes. He slowly winded between the little bodies. A silent Kilali followed.
The air gradually filled with hushed voices as more parents filed into the mortuary. Every few minutes, the pain in the air was exacerbated by a wounded cry from a relative indicating they had identified their own. But still Kilali and Olla’nna remained separated.
“Ma, you talk say your pikin get pink and blue watch and suppose dey wear yellow uniform abi?” The attendant said to Kilali as he stopped, staring down at a little girl that looked eerily like... “OLLA?” Kilali whispered quietly to her daughter as if the love in a mother’s voice could wake the child. “Baby Olla” her mother whispered again to her baby, this time shaking her pink watched hand. “Baby, Olla, Olla’nwam, Olla’nna...” her voice getting more insistent as she called her daughter’s names. She shook her with each name. As her voice softened, the pressure of her hands increased. “Olla, Olla, Olla don’t leave mummy. Please. Please Olla.” By now she had her daughter’s little body in her arms and was sobbing into her lifeless neck.
Kilali Roger cried like a king. Not a queen. In contrast to her regal, almost aloof, nature she cried like a lion feeling the first tear of the hunter’s arrow. Loud and haunting, the sound burst from her lips like it had been repressed for a long time. Like the tears of women all over the world, it had. It had laid deep inside her through marriage issues, losing a father, labour pains and more. Mixing with her intestines, peppering her throat, fighting with her tonsils to escape the prison of her mouth. Often she did not let it. But today, today there would be no other day like it. The tears burst from her, drawing gasps and answering tears from the eyes of the other parents as they all mourned the deaths of their Joy.
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Favourite Things
I love everything about this band! I love the style in & of the video. Amaze.:). Everytime i hear this song, I want to rent a vintage beetle, drive fast on an empty road with all 18 inches of my (horsehair?!?!) weave flowing in the summer breeze!
#BlackHarajukwuGirl
#BlackHarajukwuGirl
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